“Yes. Any idea what it is?”
Robert steered me over to a door that led outside, where we crossed a small courtyard. “It’s an orangery,” he informed me, holding open the door and letting me pass through first. I caught sight of the fruit hanging from the trees.
For once, I enjoyed the manmade design. Each tree was placed in the direct sunlight of an arched window, one on each side of the corridor. The trees marched down the walkway in a perfect row, their branches all trimmed to a uniform size. A faintly familiar smell reached my nose—heavenly citrus.
“The gardener informed me the trees were imported from Portugal. Aren’t they extraordinary?”
I reached out and rubbed the waxy-looking leaves, intrigued. “Such wealth. These must have cost a fortune.”
“No doubt.” He nodded, green eyes alight with excitement. “But just think—they could be ripe in the next few weeks. Perhaps even while we are here.”
My stomach growled again, reminding me I still hadn’t eaten.
“Are you hungry?” Robert asked. “Shall I send for a tray?” Always he saw to my needs.
“No, I’ve already sent for one. Come, let us keep walking.”
Inclining my head toward the nearest tree, I breathed in the citrus scent. My mind drifted to a Christmas long ago, when my father’s gift to me had been an orange. I’d spent the whole afternoon turning it over in my hands, smelling it.
Instead of picking one of the oranges as I was tempted to do, I found one that was nearing ripeness, bright as a sunset, almost glowing in the light coming through the window. I extricated my hand from Robert’s arm, and my fingers slid over the fruit, the smallest marks and grooves giving texture to the otherwise smooth outer peel. Once again I was a girl of five, thrilled with the excitement of receiving something so bright, so colorful, that was all my own.
For some reason the memory made me feel the chasm between my world and Halstead’s with grave extremity. With the war my family’s fortune had changed, and I’d had plenty of oranges since then, but even so, to me, the fruit represented a memory, an entire Christmas. To Halstead it was an everyday treat. Appreciated, perhaps, but not treasured. The thought left a lump of misery knotted in my stomach.
Determined to ignore it, I turned to Robert, who stood next to me as I paused. “I’d love to eat one, but the smell is almost as satisfying. And that color. They hardly look real!”
Robert laughed. “Not that you’re the best judge. Do you remember that time when you touched Lady Winthrop’s hat, certain there was a real bird perched upon it?”
I let out a small laugh. “How could I forget? Your mother was horrified I offended her guest. I was forced to stay in my room for the next three days!” I frowned. It was no wonder she watched me so carefully here at the castle; she still feared I might say or do something that would embarrass her and reflect poorly on the family.
Robert seemed not to notice my irritation. “I hope you are not forgetting all the services I rendered you during those days. You ran me quite ragged.”
“As I recall,” I shot back, “you were more than willing. You seemed to think yourself some sort of liberator, even though you never actually broke me free.”
Robert gave me a look of extreme forbearance. “I brought you fresh scones, books from the library, and plenty of art supplies, and yet all you remember is my failure to steal the key that was carefully guarded by my mother.”
I laughed aloud, remembering the incident with the scones. The crack under the doorway was an inch high at most, and the first scone Robert had tried to give me was a squashed lump by the time he’d forced it under. After that he had to carefully cut the scones in half before he slid them to me. The effort, I’m sure, was more than he’d bargained for. He had certainly done his part to make those long three days tolerable.
That had been only a few months after my father’s death and our relocation to Lymington Park. But even Robert’s efforts couldn’t erase the pain I’d felt as Aunt Agnes had meted out my punishment while my mother stood by, unblinking, unwilling to speak in my defense. That was when I’d known I couldn’t count on her any longer. It was that day, not the day Mother had died, that Harry had truly come into my care.
I shook away the memories of that dark time to find Robert looking at me, a perplexed expression on his face. I sighed. Perhaps Aunt Agnes was right. Was I foolish to so quickly dismiss Robert’s constancy, his devotion? If we married, I might, for the first time in almost ten years, really belong somewhere. Have a place, a home I could call my own.
“Juliet?” Robert’s voice held a note of concern.
I looked up and met his gaze, trying to see him as something other than a brother. “Thank you.”
Confusion passed over his features, his brow wrinkling.
“For the scones. And the books. For helping me through those first dark months.”
Robert reached out, laying a gentle hand on my elbow. “I know you were miserable, but you were such a sweet, gentle thing even in the midst of your grief. How could I help but care for you?”
His countenance held such sincerity, such goodness. It would be natural for me to accept his offer. There was a small piece of me that wanted to. It would be simple. Yet something held me back.
“Excuse me, miss?” A footman stepped forward, bearing a silver platter. “Here’s a tray for
